In moments to delight devoted,
'My life!' with tenderest tone you cry;
Dear words! on which my heart had doted,
If youth could neither fade nor die.
To death even hours like these must roll,
Ah! then repeat those accents never;
Or change 'my life!' into 'my soul!'
Which, like my love, exists for ever.
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ANOTHER VERSION
You call me still your life.--Oh! change the word--
Life is as transient as the inconstant sigh:
Say rather I'm your soul; more just that name,
For, like the soul, my love can never die.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
In many was I hear a teenager in the thrall of some angst or another who is trapped inside Lord Byron. That would account for all that dark melancholy and fascination with a love that transcends death and the lonely suffering nobly endured in public balls and parties...
Again I must apologize for my poor typing. Took me a minute to figure out what I was trying to say- - - In many WAYS I hear a teenager trapped inside Lord Byron, a teenager who is in the thrall of some angst or another. That would account for all that dark melancholy and fascination with a love that transcends death and the lonely suffering nobly endured in public balls and parties..